


Concrete Jungle

by Salomonderiel



Series: Ill Manors [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, estate kid!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Q doesn't have a name... </p>
<p>Intro to a new 'verse idea I had, surrounding Q's background. Because I don't want him to have a name. I don't want him to have a perfect posh upbringing.<br/>I want him to be an orphan. I want him to be a council estate kid. The small quiet one in glasses they're all afraid of... <br/>Who is now one of the most powerful people in the world. </p>
<p>(There's a bit of gang fighting, but not explicit enough to warrant a warning)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concrete Jungle

**Author's Note:**

> This is an intro, more than anything else, setting the scene. The entire 'verse occured to me when listening to Plan B's single Ill Manors. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Priya (shock horror) for suffering through my ramblings on the topic, and also Hana (satan) for beta'ing for me, what a luvely!

The economy’s shit.

The economy’s always shit, but apparently it’s shittier than it was before because you’re moving, from one council estate to another.

You’re not scared. You’re used to this, this shifting and relocation, burying yourself into a new life. You know how the system works. You know to keep a flick-knife in the waistband of your jeans, to wear a hoodie, keep your head down.

A few days it all it takes for you to see the two sides. There’s usually two sides. Sometimes there’s three, but here there’s two. You got the estate kids and the orphanage kids. The Estates hold the benches, the alleys, the underpass. The Orphans hold the streets, the playground, the park.

There’s not a choice, about joining the gang. You have to. You know this. So you let yourself fall in.

You’re used to the bruises, the cuts. But you need brothers beside you, round here.

 Fights are common, and often. Could be anything. Who needs reasons to beat something up? Perhaps Boss wanted to lean against that tree in the park. Or perhaps some of the others wanted to show off on the climbing frames in the playground. Less frequently, one of the Orphans might be sat on one of _your_ benches. Who wins doesn’t matter, until next time. As long as some of them bleed, and you come away victorious some of the times.

*

You first see him when you’re after the trees. You want to climb something, show off, have muscles to work out, and there’s several cans of beer and relentless flowing through your veins and you’re laughing. There’s five of you, and you see the trees, and you want, and you see the kid sitting beneath it, clothes so clearly second hand and oversized glasses, some shitty phone in his hands. So clearly an Orphan, with stuff that shit. You laugh at him, and gesture at him to your mates, a suggestion.

They shoot you down.

You don’t get it. He’s a small thing, a rat of a kid, you could break him with bare hands and that’s no exaggeration. You tell them as such. They yell at you, shove you back, you stumble, they turn and walk away, to the underpass where the others probably are.

You still don’t get it, but after one last glance at the brat you turn and follow.

*

No one ever picks a fight with the four-eyed kid.

Eventually, someone tells you of how one of them beat up the kid. He got beat up himself, him and his little brother, the next day, by the bigger kids in the orphanage, the ones with muscles and fists like stone. And two days later, the police appeared at his door, too.  They arrested him.

You ask why. They shrug.

*

You forget what the fight was over, later. Something small, probably. Someone did something to one of your brother’s bikes. Stole it. Broke a wheel.

Who cares. The knives are out.

It’s a cramped alley, but no one cares who they hit, as long as there’s blood on their blades by the end of it.

There’s catcalls. You add a few to the sound, shoulders knocking against your brothers’. You don’t make the first move. You don’t know who did but suddenly it’s yells and bustle and shoving and you’re being pushed forwards, to the side, and you don’t like knives _don’t want to die_ and you’re at the back, you’re out of the way and you dodge and duck and try not to show fear _they can smell it_

And there’s the small kid. And he’s an easy target, and you forget that everyone else is scared of him, forget what you’d learnt and go _at him_.

He knocks your knife from his hand with a well-aimed punch, and you hadn’t expected that. But you’ve got fists and feet so who cares about metal?

You land a kick into his stomach. He’s on the floor. It’s easy after that.

It’s your brothers and you, the Estates, that are eventually pushed from the alley. It’s not a victory because you’re laughing and shoving each other as you run from there to your underpass, because some of _them_ won’t be walking home tonight.

You don’t know it then. But you’re dead.

You remember, _about him,_ that night, and a coldness fills you. Lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering as you try to convince yourself – the kid won’t know who you are. Won’t know to send them after you. You won’t be arrested.

It gets easier, when, the next day, and the next, you’re fine. Bruised from the fight, but fine.

What you don’t realise is that it’s not _you_ that gets attacked.

It’s your phone. Your computer. The fucking _CCTV_.

Three days, cuts and bruises barely even healed over, and your texts are all over the estate.

During the night, someone – some _gang_ – has gone into Estate territory and thrown fliers with your texts, you emails, pictures of you shagging in alleys – every text you’ve ever sent your mum, every text in which you slag off a brother, every racist comment – every last secret you ever had is plastered to lamp posts, graffiti on walls, covering the floor.

And that’s it. You’re over. You’re _done_. You’re out, on your own, and show your face in the wrong place again and you’re _dead_.

No one ever says it’s the four eyed kid, from the orphanage.

But are _you_ going to risk going near there again?

**Author's Note:**

> For Q's POV, his adoption into MI6, 00Q and James finding out, and some rather badass Q, watch this space...


End file.
